World Made of Steel
by FairyTale87
Summary: It's not easy to be Tommy and Brendan Conlon. Pre-Warrior.
1. First When There's Nothing

_World Made of Steel_

_One _

'_First When There's Nothing'_

The sun hadn't even crept above the US Steel Building yet, and Tommy Conlon's alarm clock was already blaring. The covers instantly became fire against his chilling body, and he dug the back of his head deeper into his pillow. The Pittsburgh hills were sadists at four-thirty in the morning, and the autumn breeze was anything but warm. _Run. Run, Tommy. Do you want to win this match? Win it all? _

His father. Paddy Conlon: the steelworker who had more dedication to the Steel Workers' Union than to his own family. Unless it was wrestling. That was the one time Pop had his eyes on Tommy and Tommy alone. The one time he was proud of his son. Maybe it was the years that had made Paddy rough; or maybe it was the war. Whatever the case, there was no mercy left in the world for Tommy and Brendan Conlon, it seemed. What little mercy there was took form in the sport of wresting. It was the safe haven for the Conlon brothers.

And that is why Tommy arose at four-thirty in the morning to run. At thirteen, he already felt drafted into the army. Paddy Conlon's army. And he was pretty goddamn sure it was worse than anything the United States military could come up with. Sighing, he drug his body out of the warm bed, drearily folding the sheets the way Pop liked it. The Terrible Towel seemed an ultra bright yellow in these wee hours of the morning, and the black letters seemed to taunt him. It wasn't that Tommy didn't love the sport, or tolerate the training. To him, it had become just another aspect of daily life. What got to him was the pressure. His father had a path set for him, and there was no option to explore the distant term 'personality'. What mattered was _character_; how much a boy could take before he broke. That was all Tommy had ever grown up knowing. So, it was wrestle your way through high school, join the Marines, find a girl, stay close to home, become a steelworker, and maybe go to community college down the road. Plain and simple, that was his life; from teenage years to death. Tommy bit his cheek, turning to look at his brother still fast asleep.

Brendan had learned years ago how to sleep through Tommy's ludicrous alarms, and as the younger brother stared at his roommate's sleeping form, he couldn't help but feel envy. The momentary recognition from Pop was not enough to justify sacrificing his entire life for wrestling. Brendan had the opportunity to find himself, and make his own way. Tommy had never experienced that luxury.

He rubbed his temples as he felt his stomach growl. His first match was in fifty hours, and he was three pounds above his weight class; he couldn't afford to eat this morning. Pop would steam into a frenzy if he even caught Tommy sneaking a hard-boiled egg. To distract himself from the hunger, he grabbed his tennis shoes from beside the bed, slipping them on, not bothering to even retie the laces.

Tom was careful to step down the stairs quietly, but just loud enough so his light sleeper of a father would know he was up and running. The burning desire to please Pop would never fade. No matter how many times he'd let down his sons. Tommy was still determined to make him proud; even if it was on his father's terms.

* * *

Homestead was not the easiest of places to run around, but it was doable. Tommy Conlon had proved that many a time. Amongst the smokestacks, though rapidly diminishing and finding themselves being outsourced, the smoke was rough on the lungs. It was like inhaling one hundred cigarettes at once. Industrial cigarettes, full of god knows what. But that didn't stop Tommy from picking up a jog as he went down the massive hill also known as his street. The homes were still sleepy, only one or two lights on amongst all the houses. It was a Sunday, and not a single soul had the intention of starting the day extra early. Tommy as alright with the silence though. Out here, on the Pittsburgh streets this early, it was just him and his thoughts. Yes, the looming reminder of what was expected of him plagued the back of his mind, but he could silence it for a bit. Just long enough to keep him sane. Tommy thought about his brother still sound asleep at home, and picked up his pace. He was striding now, his arms extending to the point where he could feel the pull in the side of his back. His muscles were tight this morning, and his joints cracked groaningly as he continued down the street. Almost by the main street, he thought about picking up an energy bar at the local grocery store. The manager Gary offered him one every single time they crossed paths in the morning and Tommy looked hungry, but the boy always refused it. It wasn't his way, to take charity. No matter how desperately he wanted to. One thing Pop had taught him well was strength.

Passing the grocery store, Tommy looked to see if Gary was opening up shop. But of course he wouldn't be. It was Sunday. Tom kept running, his arches feeling tenderer with each step he took. The sweat was beginning to pour now, as the sun rose higher in the sky, and his sweatshirt felt heavier and heavier. He was almost back to his house now, just one more hill to go. The Conlon's lived right at the tippy top of the mountainous street. It always gave Tommy the illusion there was a very long way to fall.

He sprinted up the street, hoping silently that Pop would be sitting on the steps, or maybe Brendan. Tommy needed some form of recognition for what he was doing. Today, his wish seemed to be granted. Because there, on the highest of the three steps, sat his brother. Elbows resting on his thighs, and hands clasped together, Brendan looked pensive. Tommy slowed down when he reached his house, trying hard to regulate his breathing. He looked to his brother, silently asking what was wrong. The brothers had rarely ever needed words to communicate.

"Mom and Pop are fighting," Brendan said vacantly. "Well, more like Mom is fighting with a human bottle of Yuengling." The fifteen year old was bitter to say the least. These fights were becoming more and more common, and the two brothers were becming more calloused to their affects.

"Oh," Tommy said in low disappointment. His breathing was almost at its normal pace now, and he took a heavy seat to the right of his brother. "What's it about this time?"

"God knows what," Brendan said dryly. "They've been going at it for a while now."

"It's barely even six," Tommy replied distantly, wanting that energy bar more than anything now.

"Yeah, well, it doesn't seem like fighting has a nine to five work day," Brendan said. Tommy smirked at the comment, tapping his foot on the concrete stair. He wished he hadn't come home yet.

"Brendan, do you think we'll be here forever?" Tommy's voice was small, childish whispers more than anything. Brendan looked to his brother confusedly. The boy still stared straight ahead, seeming to see beyond the rows of clustered homes, still partially covered in soot.

"What do you mean?"

"Here; in this town; with Mom and Pop…" Tommy didn't even have to finish his thought. Brendan knew what he was talking about. It was always the brothers' biggest fear to be landlocked in the crossfire of their parents, and everything it implied. Even surrounded by three rivers, the Conlon boys felt so far from water and freedom.

"I don't know, Tommy," Brendan replied. It wasn't a matter of getting out of Pittsburgh; it was the issue of losing the memory of their father. Tommy and Brendan made eye contact, seeing bits and pieces of Pop in each other.

* * *

So, for now this will be a one shot unless I get an overwhelming request to expand it. (Or, if I have the desire on my own, haha). But I really love this movie, and feel it is underwritten, so I figured I'd take a stab at it. Please tell me how you think I did!

_Reviews are love!_


	2. Slow Glowing Dream

_World Made of Steel_

_Two_

'_Slow Glowing Dream'_

It was eerily quiet now, and Tommy couldn't hear anything coming from behind the thin front door. Its bleak gray color gave no vibe of danger, yet no assurance of kindness either. He kicked at some of the gravel on the step, and caught Brendan's attention. The older boy looked at him wearily with a sigh. Tommy, no matter how much life pulled him down, always seemed to have this spark of life… no, it was more a sort of determination… that kept him going, no matter what. Brendan envied that will to survive: he'd never pegged himself as someone who had that endearing quality. Maybe that was why Pop had so much more faith in Tommy. His determination not to be beaten made him the perfect contender for both wrestling and the Marines. He didn't ask questions either, and by god, did Pop loathe questions. The army wouldn't stand for them, and neither would coaches or the mills; sure there was that illusion, but he knew it wasn't true. Brendan was too into _bettering _himself, and creating his own future. Tommy was Pop's little soldier; Brendan had never been that… probably never would. As long as Tommy was around, at least. Tapping his fingers on his knee, he kept his gaze on his brother; the younger boy didn't seem to notice. But Tommy missed very little, so he raised his eyes to Brendan. He looked so distant from invincible, that Brendan had to do a double take. Tommy's thick brown eyes were vacant, and a twinkle of sweat lingered on his long eyelashes—a kind of twinkle that made him appear more deadened than he truly was. Brendan almost shivered. It was rare that his brother ever looked like this. He wanted no more than to hug the boy, asking feverishly if everything was okay. But Tommy Conlon very rarely responded well to physical affection… any kind of affection for that matter. It was just who he was. Brendan bit his lip.

"Maybe we should go inside," he suggested quietly, picking up the pace of his taps upon his knee. Tommy stared at the nervous fingers, and looked back up.

"Mom and Pop," Tommy reminded just as meekly, and Brendan let out a deep breath, his fingers coming to a halt.

"Tom, we can't stay out here forever; we've got to go in at some point." It pained Brendan to say that, because he knew the probability of peace behind that gray door was very slim. Tommy dropped his brother's gaze.

"It's peaceful out here," he whispered, letting his eyes linger on the sleepy street. No one was being hurt out here; there was no pain. Nothing was broken, no hearts were shattering. Tommy wanted to stay out here forever; it wasn't like family meant much anyway. 'Conlon' was simply a name that bound him to a dutiful ache.

"Tommy—" Brendan started, but the younger brother shook his head, getting up from his seat with such stealth agility, his brother had to hide his envy. Brushing the gravely substance off the back of his shorts, he twisted the door's knob harshly, and walked over the threshold with a certain heaviness. Brendan was left sitting there, utterly stunned. It took him a good few seconds to actually respond to reality, and then he too got up from his seat and followed Tommy inside. It was always like this: Tom silently leading, while Brendan humored himself with the illusion that he actually had a say.

Tommy was frozen as he stood in the living room, looking like a stranger in his own home. Glass was shattered all over the unsavory mustard-yellow carpet, and there was sure to be the smell of alcohol if he knelt down near it. It looked as if water had been spilled; Pop was in his vodka phase, and it was not even seven in the morning. On a Sunday, no less. Jesus was nowhere to be seen, and salvation found no place in the deep crevices of their father's sins.

Brendan stopped just behind his brother, and lifted a timid hand, placing it lightly on Tommy's shoulder. He didn't move away, but there was little response other than the immediate jump at the sudden touch. Brendan hung his head for a moment.

"Looks like the worst is over," he said, taking his hand from Tommy. The younger boy moved the shoulder, as if shooing away the touch.

"Doesn't mean it's finished," Tommy replied bleakly, and walked deeper into the house. The pictures sitting on the mantle didn't depict the Conlon house in its true light. It glorified their situation to the point where both brothers felt as if they were looking at photos of a different family. One which actually knew the meaning of the word, and felt that it had meaning.

A plate clattered from the kitchen, and Brendan could only imagine his mother's poor shaking hands, not knowing how to function without trembling. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. As much as he loved his mom, he was nowhere near as close to her as Tommy was. He didn't know what it was about Tommy that made their mother favor him. With Pop, it was easy to see why. But their mom was a whole other story. She'd mentioned once that Tommy reminded her of her late father; she'd never said anything of the sort to Brendan.

Tommy walked quickly into the kitchen, leaving Brendan with his mournful thoughts. Alone, as always.

* * *

"Mom," Tommy greeted in a tender whisper, and the frail woman turned around slowly. The remains of tears still lingered in her eyes, but the boy never brought attention to it. His mother was strong: he wasn't about to take that from her. She quickly set down the dirty plate she was holding, and embraced her son. It was a desperate hug, one full of all the emotions she could never even wish to express. "Shh," he cooed to her, as he felt her body begin to tremble. Tommy had that effect on people: nothing could stay hidden. He triggered such emotion.

Brendan leaned like a foreigner in the doorway, and fidgeted with his fingers. They looked so complete, the two of them… mother and son. What did that make Brendan? Forgotten. Or, at least that's what it seemed liked until his mother lifted her head so she could see Brendan from over Tommy's shoulder. Fresh tears now illuminating her hazel eyes, she broke away from Tom, and beckoned for Brendan to come closer. He wasn't going to deny her tender touch, and he hugged her tightly. This time it was the mother to calm her child. Brendan didn't mean to appear so weak, but there was no one there who would judge. He smiled. This is how it should be: him, Tommy, and mom. Sadly, though, Pop was still in the picture. At the thought, Brendan froze. His brother seemed to read his thoughts, and turned to his mother.

"Where's Pop," Tommy said dully, as Brendan stepped away from their mother. Helen Conlon looked to her two boys, her head held high.

"Your father," she began tightly, the evidence of tears vanishing, "went _out_." They all knew that meant he was at the bar, drinking far past his fill, and handing away all his money to the alcohol companies. The Budweiser boys were sure to be substantially richer by the time Paddy Conlon was finished.

"What can we do to help you, Ma?" Brendan asked. The two brothers had learned years ago to stop asking what had happened, rather settling on cleaning up their father's messes.

"I'll get the glass," Tommy said bitterly, not waiting for an okay. Grabbing the dustpan from the corner of the kitchen, he walked past Brendan and into the living room. His brother's strength left Brendan in awe.

Helen looked at Brendan. "Everything's okay," she assured him, but he knew it was a hollow lie. Even so, he nodded to her. "Just help your brother with the glass."

He turned to go out of the room, but glanced back. "You're sure you're alright?"

"He didn't hurt me," she told him, and that was all she said. Helen looked away from him, and Brendan had no choice but to leave the room. Even if Paddy hadn't hurt her physically, the emotional abuse was still apparent. Why she continued to stay with the man was completely lost to Brendan.

"I hate him," Tommy commented once Brendan made his way over to him. The older brother wasn't surprised at the comment, and he nodded. Tom began to forcefully shove the glass into the pan, and looked about ready to rip the carpet right out of the ground. Hands shaking, he let go of the thing harshly. A few pieces of the glass trickled back onto the floor. "Why can't he just stay away."

"Because we keep letting him come back," Brendan returned with a shrug. Tommy looked to his brother, eyes appearing almost black. Nothing more was said and he put the few stray pieces of glass into the pan, and left the room.

* * *

Chapter two! Wooho! Haha, I tried to add a bit more of Brendan in this one, so I hope that turned out okay. Also, I can't remember if they actually said the mother's name in the movie, so I just made up my own. Next chapter, I'm hoping to include Paddy. I'm so nervous about writing him, but I'll do my best. Your comments and ideas are greatly welcomed!

_Reviews are love! _


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